Two Eyes and a Smile
by scribbled.ink
Summary: "Sherlock never had friends. His family was always away and no person he ever talked to found him stand able. He was just too... different. But that night, in the few hours since drawing two dots and a curved line on a frosted window, he had managed to create something that would keep in his memories for a lifetime." Christmas Oneshot. Young!Sherlock, Imaginary!John


Late in the winter of 1989, a young family celebrated Christmas Eve. It was just the four of them, but that was all they needed to be happy in life. Family. The fireplace created a warm inviting aura inside their apartment, causing eager smiles to spread across their faces. The youngest, a boy twelve years of age with dark, brown curly hair, sat by the small Christmas tree, talking with his brother. His brother, who was a few years older in age, sat opposite of the younger. Both legs' were crossed.

In the next room down, a short woman with faded light brunette hair sat at table, discreetly sneaking pieces of candy from the Candy House the family had made when she knew they boys weren't looking her way. Seated on a black leathered couch was the father of the boys, and the eldest in the family. He quietly chuckled as he watched his wife's antics.

The weather outside their apartment building was perfect for the holiday season. England this time of year was beautiful, and the scenery was what you would find in children's picture books- outstanding. While the chilled air was cold against the wind, it turned up the spirits in the streets. In several emptied parks, couples sat on benches with hot chocolate in hands, declaring love and laughing kind-heartedly. Angel kissed snowflakes landed on once green fields, creating the foundation for snow men and forts in snow ball fights. Children merrily skipped on sidewalks with snow filled cracks.

Children merrily skipped on sidewalks with snow filled cracks. Store owners and employees packed their bags, carrying gifts for loved ones back home as they eagerly left work for the holiday. Doors were locked and windows closed as shop keepers put out 'Closed' signs for the night. Business workers paced the streets quickly, searching for cabs, hoping to finish their jobs in time to go home to their families. Infants wrapped heavily in blankets snuggled to their mother's chests, falling into slumber.

It was five hours till midnight.

Five hours till Christmas Day.

As midnight neared closer and closer, the mother ushered her two children to bed. They boy with brown curls sleepily rubbed his eyes as he climbed into his small twin bed, pulling the comforter over his cold form. Across the room, his older brother turned off his lamp and glanced out the window. There, he paused for the breathtaking sight of the rest of England's lights were turned off one by one, leaving the ornamental Christmas bulbs like a giant nightlight for the children across the globe. Tomorrow morning, he would open gifts and drink eggnog and stuff his face with sweets beside his brother, laughing the day long.

However, this boy, who remains unnamed, was the polar opposite of someone else, somewhere else. This other boy is what the tale is truly about.

Somewhere in England sat a twelve year old boy on an old window sill, alone. His parents weren't due home for another two weeks, and his brother was at the university.

The AC in the tiny apartment had long since stopped working, so he wore a dark blue knit coat to keep him warm. He found the coat in a chest of his Grandfather's belongings when he died. The coat was foreign, from what he had discovered, and was fairly old; but he loved the thing. It was definitely expensive, well, for him anyway. It was long, like a trench coat, but _better._ After several experiments with the piece of clothing, he found out that it was waterproof, and made from Irish wool tweed, which made it all the better. He never went anywhere without it, and he certainly wasn't going to leave it alone on Christmas Eve. Most times, it felt like the coat was his only companion in the world.

The almost empty apartment was dim-lit, solemn. No colorful lights were strung. The smell of peppermint and eggnog had long since left his memory. The living room was hollow, aside from a couch with a layer of dust atop of it, and no tree was decorated or put up that year. His family thought Christmas was a wasteful holiday. They never celebrated. In his twelve years of life, he had never sat by a Christmas tree, opening presents. He had never eaten candy canes with hot chocolate, or decorated a gingerbread house. He was taught that Christmas was a waste of money, and it was highly illogical. He knew at two years of age that Santa Claus was a fictional man created to bring fake joy to ignorant children.

His parents weren't due home from Africa for another two weeks, and his brother was busy studying at the university. He was going to spend Christmas, alone.

He didn't really mind that much, but sometimes, when he was alone, he would think about Christmas. It might've been nice to have a tree and gingerbread houses, and presents. It might've been nice to eat a family dinner and laugh and smile and have the apartment smell of hot chocolate and peppermint.

He discarded the thought, however. Christmas was illogical and wasteful.

When he was six, he asked his mother if they could get a Christmas tree. She reminded him the never on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs did it say "Christmas," and therefore there was no need to celebrate. That was the end of the discussion.

Sometimes, though, like that day, he allowed his mind to wander and imagine what it would be like. The food, the decorations, the music, the people, the gifts. Oh, the gifts. When he was out and about one day, he had heard a young mother ask her child about his Christmas list. He had never made a Christmas list before, and so he wondered and wondered what he would ever want. He didn't need technology or games or treats or clothes, he didn't care for those kinds of treasures. If, though, he ever made one, he knew exactly what he would put on it. No, He didn't want what everyone else wrote on theirs.

He wanted a friend.

Snow coated the window, his head was leaned against, and he timidly raised it from the icy glass and put his palm on his forehead, feeling the cold skin. He stared out at the passing people below, as they laughed and talked and hugged. He watched as kids discarded their snowmen and ran inside, eager to fall asleep and wait for Santa to come.

Another thing he didn't understand- why would Santa come through the chimney? Several people didn't even own chimneys, and if the man was eating all the cookies kids left out, wouldn't he be like, super fat? How would he even fit? If kids were smart enough, they would've been able to figure out the truth behind the "legend." However, not everyone was as smart as him.

He breathed against the snow-coated window and quickly drew a small circle on the wet glass before the water condensate and precipitated into the air. He added two small dots inside the larger circle, and added a curved line below the dots.

A smiley face.

He offered a small smile to the emptiness around him. However, as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared of his face, replaced by a expressionless blank stare. The smile on the window smeared over the snow and left a mark. For the few hours, the smiley face didn't disappear. So, in deciding not to let the two dots and a smile got to waste, the boy named it John. John's eyes were slightly off in symmetry, which bothered the boy to no end, but honestly, it was just a smiley face. And faces aren't exactly symmetrical, and this sentence shouldn't begin with an 'and' but hey, nothing is perfect.

"Do you want to celebrate Christmas with me, John?" He asked breathlessly. The drawing on the frosted window didn't answer. At this, the boy furrowed his brow, then relaxed. It was just a picture; an inanimate object that had sprouted from the tips of his cold fingers. Talking to non-living things was, as his older brother put it, dumb. 'Talk to people, and if they aren't smart enough, then to yourself,' they had said. People who rambled on to objects were freaks. He didn't want to be a freak; no one ever did. So, he concluded, he shouldn't have been wasting his life away with such idiotic mundane antics like that!

But.. no one was around to see him. And he _was_ quite lonely. He had talked to himself all the time, but even then, he got bored of himself. It'd have been nice to have a proper conversation with someone for once.

Maybe- maybe just a small chat. No one would have to know. Ever. It would be his little secret all for himself... and John. "Of course you do. This may very well be your only chance at life, and we should make the most of it, shouldn't we?"

"It's polite to have a small talk amongst guests about everyday life before the event begins. However, I forgot the decor, so we will have to suffice with exchanging presents, John; but that's not until later!" He waited for an answer, and then continued. "Very well, John. John, do you have a last name? I would assume so; so if you could be so kind as to share the information with me, I can return the favor."

Silence.

"Watson? What a lovely name, it does suit you very well." He paused, before continuing.

"My name? Oh, yes, I almost forgot. My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I don't do nicknames, Sherlock is quite alright when addressing me, thank you," he said softly. By then, he was awfully close to the window, and each time he breathed the icy air would stick to the glass around the smiley face.

"Say, John, what are your hobbies? Writing? That's interesting. I would assume, someone with a name like yours would be a doctor. My parents are very intelligent, so is my older brother, Mycroft, and they assume I will be too; all in good time of course. So I study science- which I have grown a longing too. Science and writing, huh? We could make a decent living, together."

"John, since we have only met perhaps ten minutes ago, would you be disgusted if I told you something about me? I figure that since we now know each other's names and hobbies, we might as well lay everything out on the table, okay?"

"Great. So, here's the deal," his voice dropped to a low whisper, and he faltered slightly. "I've never... I've never celebrated Christmas, and I'm going on a whim here. I don't have a tree, or a gift for you. I lied. John, would you forgive me?"

Silence.

"John?"

Silence.

"Oh, really? John, you are grand! Thank you, I'm honored!" Sherlock queered an eyebrow, folded his arms across the blue coat and leaned against the wall. "You know, I'm beginning to feel really close to you, John. A splendid person, you are."

That continued on late into the night. With Sherlock asking questions and imagining just what John would've said. Laughter and gasps echoed in the empty room, and it became a lively event with just a boy and his window. After he had yawned a few to many times, Sherlock reluctantly stood up. All fun had to end sometimes.

"John, I'm afraid to say that it's time for me to get some rest. Now is usually the time when I would give you a gift, and vice versa, but as you were aware, I have none. This may very well be your last night here, before you fade away by sunrise, and I hope tonight was memorable. Did you have fun? It sounds like it. Also, thank you for the gift, John. Really, I'm grateful for all you've done."

Silence.

"I don't recall ever making a Christmas list, and I've never received a present, so I don't know if there are guidelines I must follow or not when asking. However, there has always been one thing I wanted."

Once again, he was greeted with silence. Then, a clock nearby echoed loudly throughout the town- it had struck midnight. It was finally Christmas day, and, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes had been given a present.

Sherlock never had friends. His family was always away and no person he ever talked to found him stand able. He was just too... different. But that night, in the few hours since drawing two dots and a curved line on a frosted window, he had managed to create something that would keep in his memories for a lifetime.

"Why, my dear Watson, you gave me friendship."

Later that day, when Sherlock came walking through the room, he passed by a window, so snowy and icy he couldn't see through it. But he looked to where the ghost of a unsymmetrical smiley face had been drawn the night before was, and he smiled.

"Merry Christmas, John."

.

.

.

Fin.

* * *

><p>Merry Christmas!<p>

Woah, talk about Au, man...

Flippen smiley-face John Watson. Yeah. Okay.

So, anyway, here is my second, and last, Christmas oneshot! I hope you all had a great Christmas, or any other holiday you may have celebrated!

Thanks for reading!

~scribbles


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